


Gloomy November

by YlviscestAnon



Series: Gloomy November [1]
Category: Ylvis
Genre: M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YlviscestAnon/pseuds/YlviscestAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Bård's last musings and thoughts as he commits suicide thinking of exactly why he must do this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloomy November

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoosonja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosonja/gifts).



The entire time he carved letters into his arm, he was imagining Vegard, his eldest brother, standing above him as he sat on the bathroom floor. Dictating away facts about suicide and the poor way Bård was going about it.

'Cutting the wrists is the most unsuccessful way to do it, you know, they say that's when you just want attention – yet most females succeed with that method. Gunshot wound is more likely for a male in your age.'

That's exactly what Vegard would be saying, he was almost mocking and muttering the words under his own breath to breathe some kind of life into them He'd looked up these sort of statistics beforehand, it's just that he had a very set sort of mind when it came to what kind of suicide he wanted to have.

He could almost as he skimmed through all the countless pages of information on the internet know exactly what kind of way his brother would chose. Indeed, a gun in the bathtub (to not make a mess that went everywhere, as he was doing now, getting blood into the grout of the flooring that would take ages to scrub out) or perhaps even, most likely, drowning. Vegard had that kind of long patience to do it, and from all accounts he'd heard, drowning would seem... nearly peaceful.

There was no peace in the searing hot pain that was coming as he cut into his own wrist deeper and deeper with the sort of razor that no one used anymore in razors themselves, but yet were kept in business by the teenagers and young adults who hurt themselves.

It was amazing he imagined Vegard even now, in a way mocking him, in a way being the same stoic sort of persona he always had, There was no time for wondering anyway, what Vegard's actual reaction would be, just time for this character of a brother who was all too comfortable with his brother killing himself.

If Vegard had known the kind of sins to have been rolling around in his brain anyways, he wouldn't ever talk to Bård again, he would let the blond die here and continue his oh so peaceful life alone the same way he always had.

He couldn't even say that in an ideal world, Vegard would be the one dead, because as of right now neither of them were dead – and if Vegard was dead, it would have left him and the rest of their family absolutely devastated. No. Vegard had to be alive, but maybe if some tragic accident had taken him away ages ago, that would have been deemed something to mourn about.

Maybe if it had, years ago, Bård would have never developed the pesky feelings for him that he had developed.

There was no slow gradual realization of the feelings that had come around, but a gigantic epiphany after having gone to therapy for over a year to try and figure out why he was so successful, why he was a comedian and relished in making other people laugh if he himself felt an emptiness on the inside. It had been brought up once or twice that maybe the idea was that because he was single, he could have felt this way, but instead, he always brushed that off as not even being close to the reason...

It came as a grand epiphany though, the way his suicide did, but it managed to wake him up in the middle of the night and confront him with he didn't want to live a single day without Vegard. He'd wake up and go to work with Vegard later on, and he'd push the other away, and he was cold to Vegard for some time after that, because how could he even tell his private therapist that he was having incestuous feelings? At least, feelings he was pretty certain could pass for incest. He would work very closely with Vegard and then pull away in all personal sense, but he realized he could not keep doing that forever pretty quickly.

But the more he thought about Vegard – the way he was calculating, but sometimes just up and would do things, the way he had to have learned to let go of a certain amount of control that he always wanted for the sake of their comedic endeavors, every little thing about Vegard to him brought him closer to his knees to pray to a God he didn't believe in.

It just so happened that he would never pray, and he would never get Vegard to become any closer to his secret. 

Speaking back, the last time he saw Vegard on Friday, he had said goodbye, with a fairly forlorn look, and Vegard hadn't even noticed the look – or politely pretended not to, who knows. But he he gave Bård a little half smile, saying bye in just the correct tone, and the long drown out bye was the last time that Bård's memory had implanted in it of his eldest brother. There were so many other memories though, actual good ones, but he couldn't even be bothered to think about them right now. Tears pricked at his eyes when he thought of the long drawn out bye, but he was not going to allow himself to cry.

One of the letters he finally got the gumption to cut deeper, more seriously almost – and he knew he had to die, he couldn't live and get stitched up. He sat with his back to the bath tub, bleeding already all over his clothing. Jeans and a plain shirt were soaked in blood, chilling him to the bone in the November ambiance going on, but oh, just to see the face of whoever found him – he'd imagine there would be panic, before they saw the wound on his arm.

The blood may have soaked his clothes and gelled up against them but they were also dripping down and getting into the floor, blood welling up and overflowing in the cuts still from the very first one. They weren't really going that well, no clotting appeared to be taking place, but for Bård Ylvisåker, this was really going to be the end of the line he figured. He'd tip toed through the line his whole life, he'd slammed head first into the line and ran through it like he was a kid pretending to be an airplane for the sake of comedy, and well – now he was back to the tiptoeing stages, pretending Vegard was fragile glass that had already broken and could cut him at any moment as he stood with bloody feet and glass surrounding him on the floor in every direction.

What an incredible experience this was going to be. He was halfway through, he couldn't feel his arm at all, but he was determined to keep going – convincing himself the feelings of numbness were just excitement, endorphins, instead of cut nerves and everything related to that.

Everything had to have poetic meaning at this point, if he couldn't see the blood pooling and remember times spent as a teen in a cabin by a lake at this point, his life had been meaningless in it's last moments.

There was no suicide note – he'd thought about it so much, so often, but he'd decided ultimately not to do it. It would probably be a continuous loop of 'I love you, Vegard, you idiot' over and over on the paper until he just couldn't write anymore because of bleeding fingers from the pencil. It would not have been a pretty sight – the sight he was leaving on his arm was a cryptic enough suicide note, and besides... he had kept a small journal, surely it would be found among his things on his computer. Mostly filled with rage and frustration and hatred, there had to be a certain amount of that anyway for someone to kill themselves, didn't there? Beyond the undying depression – well, now he'd finally get to put it to rest too. He had started off feeling so empty and then hating himself for catching and hanging on to every little movement Vegard did or any little thing he said, there was the unending hatred for himself for loving every little thing his eldest brother had done when he was a child too and the way Vegard did that.

If Vegard disregarded an idea, it was because he had ideas about Bård himself and the secret he was hiding. If Vegard praised him, it was because he could never even fathom the idea that Bård loved him in such an inappropriate manner. 

Such was the back and forth of his life, and even living with so called clinical depression, there was always this black and white thinking and paranoia that persuaded him in life to be of quite the paranoid sort.

He was almost finished up with this artistic streak that he had going on with his arm – and he must have already lost a liter of blood, at the least, with how soaked down to the bone with it he was. It had his clothing stuck to him, it had everything in his life in that moment stuck.

The picture of Vegard that was perched precariously near the sink was a bit of a finishing touch, a picture of him and Vegard even, of before all the troubles – them just smiling pretty for the camera, after all the works they had done for this world and after all they had finally done. It had been taken about a year and a half ago, and he could just barely keep his head up enough to see it as of right then.

What would everyone say? What would the newspapers say? Death of a famous television host, comedian. Death of a one time father and death of a person they would mourn silently and get past. 

He felt cold, unbelievably cold, even though the blood that had been sticking to him had been oh so warm just moments before. It was a messy affair, messy and angry and much more of a way he could kill himself than some gunshot wound or something like that. He didn't even know how to shoot a gun, Vegard did, just little keynote differences in their personality that nobody ever analyzed but himself.

He'd done a lot of all this analyzing lately.

If Vegard had died tragically young, there would be no obsessing over him now – there would just be the mourning every time he passed a picture of him, wondering about what could have been. There also wouldn't have been a comedian's life, even though by heaven's name itself, he couldn't imagine him doing anything else but that right now and never could in these scenarios. Vegard meant so much to him, Vegard was his other half, late at night when he could barely sleep he even came to thing that Vegard was his soul mate. 

But the world would turn on, on, on, everyone would continue to live their lives in a way that only they could just without the component of Bård. Bård had set everything up with Vegard, Vegard could even continue being a comedian or retire if he had to, if doing it without Bård brought to mind every single time he tried the thought of seeing the corpse and seeing the words V E G A R D written deeply from the elbow to the hand of his middle brother.

Maybe their family would set up some kind of suicide prevention foundation, there was always that possibility. Still in the Nordic countries, as progressive as they were, Finland had a high suicide rate – and you weren't supposed to be mentioning any sort of feelings to anybody, beyond the random complaint here and there if your life was shitty.

Things were incredibly hushed up, families abhorred or resented or even denied their mentally ill children, or signs of it in themselves, whereas something could be done about it... yes, maybe the death of one of Norway's comedic lives could help out other people in the future.

Other people who had no idea of the details.

Maybe no one would even think it weird that he chose to kill himself by carving Vegard into his bones, everyone could clearly see that his brother was his other half. They'd sadly acknowledge the photograph and if Vegard saw it, knew which one, he'd never be able to look at it again. Yes, this would be Bård's ideal world. His journal would go unread and the anger and hatred for himself would go by under the radar of everyone and wouldn't tear their family apart – or force them to turn a blind eye to it in order just to keep living a normal life.

So yes, he figured, his family would have this one under way – and his poor daughter, well, he was a weekend father at most sometimes, having had a child so young and not ending up married to the mother, they would probably even outright tell her something different about his own suicide – his blood was running cold now, it felt, even though it was still quite a bit warmer than his own body. He cradled his arm to his chest with his other arm and he ended up wondering why it was his blood felt so warm, although the very first cut appeared close to clotting somewhat up. It was an ugly, jellied red color, like lingonberry jam fresh from Sweden, and he shivered.

He shivered and before he knew it he was down on his side, in the pool of his own blood freshly re-wetting his clothes and making his life a living hell, truly. He bumped his head but he just with half a heart flung the razor away as it had cut him one last time as he hit the floor, with the way he had hit the floor. 

Bård Ylvisåker couldn't mourn a lover, someone he had loved, and he knew that much – but Vegard and their parents and youngest sibling could all mourn him. None of them even knew he had been going to therapy, even though he made a joke he needed some time on a couch once, but surely his troubled mind would come out in some capacity if it was true he had to kill himself.

There wasn't even any focus on the pain – he had ascended past that, past the few cringing first cuts of a fresh untouched blade. He had struggled making the last three letters perfect, but still the last capital A didn't touch to the roof of the other letters and he found himself getting upset over such a trivial and benign thing that overall made no sense.

Bård had seen veins, he had seen fat, delusional he had even wondered if he would see muscle. There was nothing much more to do than to shiver in death troughs on the bathroom floor, wait for a neighbor to smell something or wait for a family member to realize he hadn't shown up for something, his corpse would be there waiting and withering until then. It was something where he decided oh, Vegard, his love, couldn't he see he was the cause, but Bård was none the happier that he was the cause of it all?

In a different life maybe, he'd have had more struggles, but there was something concretely serious about the struggle that had lead him to do this. Maybe it was blood loss to the brain now, but he writhed into a small ball and wait to bleed out more.

If only he could attend his own funeral, if only he could see the concerned faces, he'd have the last laugh – for feeling any sympathy or anything towards someone like him. Surely those out there that disdained him – something to come with the territory of being such a name – would be cheerful and jest, but this too would be too much of what he deserved. He deserved utter hatred, no condolences, a closed casket funeral for such a pretty death easily covered by a suit. He had laid a suit out on his bed even, as if he had some other plans that evening, but it was the only request he had to be buried in it.

Maybe Yule and other holidays would be different now without his presence, but he let out a weak laugh. Let them be. Because the only difference otherwise would be his weird, longing, lustful stares at his brother that he'd have to push away. It didn't have to be so close to Christmas though, did his suicide? Mid November, but of course it did, he couldn't go on a moment, literally, more living this way.

It was almost like being enveloped in sleep besides the harsh searing pain up and down his entire arm that he was heavily mentally blocking out. 

He never felt a moment of regret for his actions, not one, but he did feel like maybe there were beautiful things in the world he was leaving behind – his brother came to mind as an example, and at that moment, that hadn't exactly stopped the cutting.

Closing his eyes, he began to count in increments of 10.

He thought maybe he'd time his own death perfectly, that at the end of one ten, he'd be gone, but he kept getting it off and doing it wrong – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten – then he could open his fluttering eyes and let a small curse pass through his lips. He'd start it over and over, until he'd imagine he was counting fields of poppies that were seemingly endless.

Poppies in every color... and a black poppy, just to manage to remind himself of Vegard, to finish it off with. 

This wasn't a dream – this was the realest thing he had ever felt, the cold and the fingers of death itself gripping him with skeletal fingers. There was something off about the rhythm of his heart, something disdainful and slow, his breaths came in shorter heaps and imagery of all sorts of he and Vegard through these years was what he imagined, caressing the black curls even....

If he were to continue to live, that would mean there would be a way to get over love. Yet he knew there wasn't – he still thought of killing himself every time he thought of the one he let get away, the one that could have been the one, every sad song on the radio or anything like that...

Love took a piece of your life away and put it to that other person, and he couldn't even look up at the gray skies and see a plane passing by and not think of Vegard. So much he had invested in his life, just as the other had into his, and he felt no sorrow for the death that would soon be his.

He couldn't put more love or effort into this. There would be no heaven for him, just endless nothingness – he tried to make sure the job was done by slitting deeply down the middle of his other wrist but as he went to grab the razor his arm just flopped uselessly down against the floor.

He knew he'd have to just let it bleed out, and he just allowed the last few moments of his life to be a trek through the life he had had with Vegard.

Other memories with the rest of their family fit themselves in there at some point, but this was his vocal point. Maybe he should have brought a phone to call emergency services and tell them there had been a suicide, but they could always pump more blood into him and he'd be fine and then he'd have to do it again without the phone... so it was leave a pretty corpse or the chance of leaving a ugly one.

It was just a risk that he had calculated and that he would have to take. It didn't particularly bother him, though. At this point, not really anything did.

Instead, he felt his heart beat through his ears, and he let the blood mat into his hair even, as he glanced up – the word Vegard still in deep red and bright red and puffy around the rims as his flesh separated back from his skin as he counted.

He just had to get on with the counting, he did, he found it most soothing, to stare and have Vegard last in his thoughts, to let his entire life be a shrine to Vegard, his body even left after life.

Sure as his body was cold, it was there that somewhere around after counting to 93 that his eyes fell shut, he breathed in a shuddering breath, and did not exhale the last feelings of love he had to give.

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide cesty fics are the in thing right now and I'm not allowed to read them, so. Pusspuss :* This makes officially 100,000 words of Ylviscest spread over 25 works.


End file.
